Five Hundred Days
by Aelan Greenleaf
Summary: It's on the fifty-eighth day after Sophia's death that she realizes something is wrong. Multi-chaptered, Daryl/Andrea. Follow up to "Whiskey".
1. Day Three

**Okay, off we go! This is a two-part follow up to _Whiskey_, which you don't really have to read beforehand, but you can if you'd like. This is pure Daryl/Andrea, which is still strange to me, but hey, I can ship multiple pairings can't I? Less chance of me being disappointed once the show comes back... :) **

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><p>It's been three days since Sophia's second death, and two nights since she'd slept with Daryl Dixon.<p>

She's honestly not really sure what drove her to do it, to wander into the stables that night, to grab the bottle from his hands, to place her lips on his. It wasn't like she'd been yearning to fall into bed with him, pinning after him like a teenage school girl, but she'd definitely wondered what it'd be like to touch his skin, to feel him pressed up against her. She hadn't acted on it because, well, what would that really mean? Here they were at the end of the world, and she wasn't about to start jumping into bed with every single available man (her groping adventure with Shane notwithstanding). But then Sophia came out of that barn, and everything changed in an instant, again.

So much death. So much loss. So much to take.

When she looked down at Sophia's prone form on the ground, fragile and lifeless, all she could see was Amy, her hand reaching up to her, eyes deadened and empty. Sophia, Amy, Jacqui, Jim, her parents, her cousins, her friends, her boss, her ex – all of them, all of those people who had lived and breathed and loved – they were all dead, all withered and wasted on the ground, just like Sophia. Maybe it was that thought that had driven her to him, that thought that had made her take one drink, then two, then five.

Maybe it was that thought that had made her throw all caution to the wind, even if just for one night.

The next morning, she'd been eating her breakfast with the others when he'd emerged from the stables, stumbling and looking (even) worse for wear. On another day, maybe they would have all teased him for it, poking fun at his obvious hangover and berating him for having slept out among the horses, but not today. Today they were breaking camp and leaving the farm where so much had happened, where everything had changed.

He didn't even say anything to her as he passed by, just grabbed some oatmeal and slumped down into one of the free chairs, holding his head up with one hand while he mindlessly brought the spoon up to his mouth over and over again.

Part of her is glad he doesn't want to talk about it, really. But another part of her, a part of her she'd rather try to ignore, wants to talk about maybe doing it all again...

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><p>It's on the fifty-eighth day after Sophia's death that she realizes something is wrong.<p>

She's not really sure why she started keeping track of time after that certain event, but she had. She'd found an old notebook buried in the back of the RV, and she started writing down a couple of lines every day, just about the weather and any sort of incidents that might have taken place. Part of her, the lawyer part, craves the use of the written word, relishing in movements of the pen and the process of translating thought to printed text. A more sentimental part of her just wants to be able to remember everything more clearly now, since it seems more and more likely that this whole walker thing might be the only future she has left.

On day fifty-eight, she's out hunting with Daryl and T-Dog, tracking a buck down through a ravine, when she's suddenly overtaken with the overwhelming sensation of pure nausea, beyond anything she'd ever felt before (including after that bender she'd been on in her second year of college). She stumbles towards a nearby tree and only manages to plant one hand down along the bark to steady herself before she empties the contents of her stomach into the dirt at the base of the trunk. She leans there for a long time, unable to move for the tandem fear of both having to vomit again and what this might mean. She's not an idiot – she's seen her fair share of friends go through this type of thing before, not to mention the long spell of morning sickness that Lori's only recently emerged from.

_Well, shit._

Something brushes against her shoulder suddenly, and she gasps in surprise at the unexpected touch. She opens her eyes and turns to find bright blue eyes looking down at her, his brow furrowed in concern.

"You okay?" he asks, still holding on to her shoulder.

"I'm fine," she says, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. "Just feeling under the weather this morning, that's all."

He looks at her for a long moment, before moving his hand away and readjusting the cross-bow slung across his shoulder. "We gotta keep moving if we want to catch this buck; he's moving pretty quick along the bottom here. You good to keep goin'?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," she answers, straightening herself to a full standing position and brushing the dead bark off of her hands. "Let's go."

As she moves away from the tree and back down towards the main section of the ravine, she can still feel his eyes on her back, watching her every move. They'd never really spoken about that night in the stables (which feels like years and years ago), but they'd moved into a comfortable friendship, driven by her desire to be more productive and more independent, and supported by his slowly growing (and perhaps subconscious) desire to belong.

Maybe they would end up having to talk about all of this, after all.

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><p>On day one hundred and seventeen, Lori comes to talk to her in her tent.<p>

It's late in the evening, and everyone's starting to settle down for the night. They've been in their current position for about six days now, set up along the side of a country road on the western side of Montgomery, Alabama. Fort Benning had turned out to be a bust, and so they'd made the decision to continue west, towards the Rocky Mountains, where the population was less dense and more people might have survived.

The other woman sits herself down on the spare blanket Andrea's placed in the corner of her makeshift home, and adjusts her position to attain maximum comfort for her ever-changing shape. She is, by their best estimations, around five months pregnant now, and on her slight frame, her expanding belly looks much larger than that. For the most part, everyone seems happy to have a pregnant woman amongst them; the knowledge of life continuing on in spite of everything seems to help in their constant battle against pain and loss and despair.

"Look, Andrea," Lori starts, fanning herself with a rolled up magazine in the hot and humid evening air. "I know what's going on with you. And I don't mean to pry, really, I don't – but clearly this isn't something that isn't just going to go away, and you've really got to start thinking about what you want to do next."

Her first reaction is to pull at the hem of her shirt, shifting it forward and away from her skin in an attempt to deny what she knows Lori is insinuating, but she stops herself, knowing that would only reinforce what suspicions Lori already holds. She stares at the other woman for a long moment, debating what to do next. Should she deny what she clearly already knows? And for what? It's not like she won't continue to see these people tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that...

So she just sighs deeply and looks down at her hands. "How long have you known?"

"That you're pregnant? Not that long, not for sure at least. But I've been watching you the last few days, watching what you will and won't eat, and how you're trying so hard to hide that little bump on your stomach that wasn't there before. I'll admit that we've had more food in these past couple of weeks than we've had for a while, but there's no way you've eaten that much that quickly. Plus," she says, pausing for a moment to gesture towards her own protruding stomach, "I think I know what I'm looking for."

She doesn't say anything, and lets the silence between them answer for her.

"Look, Andrea," the other woman says, leaning forward to touch her on the arm. "I don't want to make assumptions about this whole situation, but we've clearly been away from the old world and our old lives for a while now, and I know what happened between you and Shane, so – " her words die out when she registers the look that she shoots at her, full of anger and irritation.

"I'm just saying, Andrea, that you need to tell... him. Or the group. Just – you can't keep hiding it, putting yourself in dangerous positions. Life is hard enough as it is."

Andrea watches the other woman leave the tent, and stares for a long moment at the moonlight streaming in from the open mesh windows. She knows what the others think, about her and Shane – especially after that fuss that Dale had kicked up upon her return from the suburbs. She was content to leave it be, mostly because she hadn't even slept with him – just fooled around in the front seat of that little car, full of adrenaline and zest for life after knocking off those zombies, shooting well for the first time in her life. No one even seemed to _suspect_, let alone assume, what had happened between her and Daryl, and so she was perfectly happy to leave everything be.

But now... now she doesn't know what she wants to do.

Part of her, the most vocal part, doesn't want to burden Daryl with this. She knows that she probably shouldn't have followed him into the stables that night, that she probably shouldn't have made him share his drink with her, and that she most definitely shouldn't have grabbed him and kissed him the way she did. He's been remarkably quiet since Sophia's death, much less prone to violent outbursts or angry rants, mostly keeping to himself and doing his part for the group. She knows that, from the little he's told her, that he didn't have a great childhood by any means, and that inside he's just as lost and vulnerable as he was as a little boy, lost in the woods alone.

Another part of her, though, a part that is small and quiet and only whispers to her right before she falls asleep, thinks that telling him about the baby – _their _baby (as strange as that sounds) – might just be the small sign of hope he's been searching for.

Either way, she's running out of time to decide.


	2. Day One Hundred and Thirty One

**Okay, clearly not a two-part story. I've apparently got a lot more I want to say on the matter. Hope y'all enjoy!**

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><p>On day hundred and thirty-one, she finally decides to go and talk to him.<p>

After Lori had come to speak to her, she'd had every intention of going over to him and telling him everything, straight away. She'd even come up with a little speech in her head, with talking points and the general overall message she wanted to get across. Then she'd taken a moment and realized what she'd prepared was a speech to her partners, or her boss, or even her clients, and she knew that she really wasn't ready to talk to him after all.

The days wore on, and while she was definitely not oblivious to the looks Lori kept shooting at her, she couldn't quite figure out how to address this particular issue. She'd made a career – _a life_ – of being able to articulate her thoughts and her arguments, and yet here she was, unable to put into words one single idea to one single person.

_I'm pregnant_.

Aside from that one quite obvious piece of information, the other stuff, the secondary things, also kept her mind occupied. What else could she say to him? _Don't worry about it, I'll take care of everything_, would have been her answer if this had happened in a world where nannies and money and civilization still existed. They could have each gone their own way after their one-night stand (was that really what it was?), and she could have raised her child the way she wanted to, safe and happy and secure.

But that can't happen now, can it? Not when the world's been effectively reduced to the RV, a couple vehicles, and a handful tents. Not when the only people left in the world are the few others crowded around their campfire at night. She can't just tell him about this whole situation and then slip away into the night, never to be seen again.

So she finally works up the courage that she's been lacking for so long, and makes her way over to his tent. Dale's on watch, sitting up top in his usual spot on the RV, while the others are all busy settling down and getting ready for bed. She can see his silhouette illuminated in the faint light from one of his flashlights, working away on an arrow or a piece of wood or whatever it is he occupies his time with.

"Hey," she says softly, pausing at the mesh covering the entrance to his makeshift home, "can I come in?"

He looks up from his work and nods at her, gesturing for her to come inside.

She opens the door and comes in, taking care to zip the screen back up, wanting to avoid at all costs the blackflies and moths that had started to pervade the camp at night. She seats herself opposite from him, on a folded up blanket next to his small pack of things. She takes stock of the contents of his tent, remarking on how little he still kept for himself, things like his usual plaid shirts and his singular pair of shoes. She notices, with a pang of – what, exactly? sentiment? – recognition the book she'd given him when she'd accidentally shot him, all those days and weeks ago.

"_What, no pictures?"_ _he'd said to her, teasing in his own way._

"Look, Daryl," she says, jumping right in. "We need to talk about – well, about a lot."

"Yeah?" he answers, not looking up from his work. He's fashioning his own handmade arrows, she notices, as he attaches a modified point to the end of the wooden shaft. They might not be anywhere near as sophisticated as his other ones but if they can kill walkers, what else do they need?

"We've never talked about what happened between us, that night in the stables," she says, feeling a knot of nervous energy form in the pit of her stomach, but she pushes past it, undaunted. "There's some... complications that we need to discuss."

His hands keep working even as he answers her. "I don't think there's much to say, is there? Too much whiskey, not enough thought, and I'll bet it's not the first time either of us been in that type of situation. Way I see it, it's done and over, and you don't have to think about it no more."

"There's more to it than that, though –" she says, pressing onwards.

"Look," he interrupts, finally looking up for the first time, "I know what I am to you. You don't have to come in here and coddle my feelings – if this is some sort of closure shit for you, then it's done. I don't care."

"I'm pregnant," she blurts out, unable to contain it anymore.

The next few moments are the longest of her life. He just stares at her, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking, barely breathing. He is frozen, like an animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, and she imagines that that is exactly how he feels like in this moment: like a deer in the path of a speeding truck.

"What?" he breathes, and he is impossible to read, a complete enigma. She can't tell if he is angry or shocked or horrified – she can't tell anything about his mental state at all.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but I didn't know for the longest time, and then I wasn't even sure how to tell you, so –"

He cuts her off abruptly, waving his hand in front of her and placing it on his forehead, clearly dumbfounded. "You're telling me that you've known you were... and you didn't tell me? Or anyone?"

There's emotion rising up in his voice now, frustration and confusion and more than a touch of anger. "Look, Daryl, I didn't want to be your problem – it's not like this was something I'd imagined, let alone planned for..."

He turns to look at her again, and his eyes lock with hers, blue and full of emotion, caught somewhere between panic and fury. "You're telling me that you've been out there huntin' and trackin' and shootin' and you _knew_? You know how goddamn dangerous that is? Do you?"

Now it's her turn to be confused. "Wh-what?"

He's pushing himself up to his feet now, grabbing his bow and shoving his shoes on over his socks. "You stupid little..." he's saying, grumbling to himself.

"Wait-"she says, calling out after him, but he's already outside, disappearing out into the darkness of the night, and she finds herself alone in his tent, confused beyond belief and wondering what exactly just happened.


	3. Day One Hundred and Thirty Three

**Thanks so much for all the great words of encouragement and support, you guys are all awesome! Hope you enjoy. **

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><p>On day hundred and thirty three, he finally comes back to camp.<p>

He's been gone ever since he stormed out of his own tent two nights ago, disappearing out into the night with only his arrows and crossbow on his back. She hadn't quite known what to do; chasing after him would be one of the dumbest things she'd ever done – both for the fact that he didn't want to be followed and the danger of being unarmed and alone in the dark – so she'd simply informed Dale that he'd gone off into the night, and that he hadn't given any indication as to when he would return.

She'd then wandered back to her own tent, and spent a sleepless night trying her best to decipher what exactly had happened. She hadn't meant to just drop it on him like that, akin to a slap across the face, but he'd been detouring down an alley that she wasn't intending to go down, one where he considered himself below her and where he expected to be treated as such. That was worrying enough as it was, but it hadn't been the issue at hand, and so she'd simply blurted out exactly what she had originally come to say.

She'd honestly expected him to be mad. To yell, to scream, to curse– all of the things she'd seen him do in the past when confronted with a situation that was not ideal. She was ready for that, prepared for it even.

But that's not what happened.

Instead, he'd reacted as if she'd shot him all over again, pain in his eyes and terror in his voice. He hadn't really reacted to the fact that she'd been keeping this from him for nearly four months, and he hadn't even mentioned that she'd pretty well seduced him in the stables that evening. Instead, he'd gotten upset at the fact that she'd been out there, in the woods, hunting and tracking and killing walkers, just like he had. He was upset, apparently, with the fact that she'd been putting herself in danger ever since she'd known.

Not exactly the response she'd been expecting, to say the least.

The whole next day, she fielded questions from the others – _where did he go? Did he say when he'd be back? Why did he leave?_ She mostly shrugged and answered with "I don't knows", which were probably the most accurate and truthful responses she had for them anyways.

She spends that whole day and night wondering where she'd driven him off to, and she doesn't even try to deny the worry and the anxiety that creeps into her mind and her heart.

He finally wanders in on the morning of the second day of his absence, two wild turkeys slung across his back. He doesn't say much to anyone when he comes into camp, just drops the turkeys off in front of the fire, and silently accepts the sincere thanks offered by the other camp residents as they hungrily eye his catches.

He doesn't make a move to come and talk to her, so she waits until the group is distracted by the preparation of the turkeys to intercept him on the edge of camp, where he is wringing out one of his freshly washed shirts and hanging it up in a nearby tree to dry.

"Daryl –" she starts, moving up to him. He gives her one quick look and starts to walk in the other direction, out toward an overgrown field adjacent to the grove they are currently camped in.

"Daryl!" she calls out at him as he starts to pick up some speed."You can't keep running away from this."

He doesn't answer, just keeps walking until she stops following, watching him as he becomes lost in the abandoned field of weeds and corn.

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><p>On day one hundred and thirty-eight, he finally comes to see her.<p>

It's late in the evening, and she's already made it into her tent, finishing up her last tasks and rituals before heading off to bed. She's surprised to see him at the entrance to her little makeshift home, a silent and brooding figure in the night air.

"Come in," she tells him, waving him in with a gesture of her hand.

He unzips the doorway and slips inside, closing up the tent door behind him. He sits down as close as he can to the door, and she can't help but think of a trapped animal waiting by the closest escape route, muscles coiled and tense, ready for action.

She doesn't say anything, just waits for him to speak, knowing that she's already said all she can, and that he's clearly here on his own terms, of his own accord.

"My momma died when I was two," he says softly, and she can safely say this was not at all what she'd expected.

"She didn't have a great life, what with my dad and his drinkin'. She, uh, she got sick one day and just never got better. I don't really remember it, 'cept the funeral. I had to wear a tie and a nice shirt, and my brother kept hitting me to get me to stop crying."

The silence between them is heavy, and she can feel the emotion in the moment, hanging between them.

"My dad – he didn't really care. About anything really. Just about booze and women..." his voice drops off for a second, and he fiddles with his hands nervously. "Look, what I'm really tryin' to say it that I dunno what it takes to be good at this kinda thing. I can't guarantee how good I'm gonna be at this stuff – but I don't want you to do this alone."

She can feel the tightness at the edge of her eyes, moisture slowly pooling in the corners, but she's determined not to cry (damn hormones). "I'm glad," she answers softly.

"You gotta promise me something, though. You gotta promise not to keep goin' out there like you do, all sharpshooter and wild woman. You leave that to me, Rick, and Shane, okay?" For the first time in a long time, he raises his eyes up to meet hers, and she can see the concern in his eyes for her, and just like before, it shocks her, somehow.

"It's a deal," she answers, giving him a slight smile.

He nods at her in return, and then gets to his feet. "Well... goodnight," he states awkwardly, before unzipping the door and slipping back out into the open air.

"'Night," she replies softly, though he's certainly gone too far to hear.

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><p>On day one hundred and forty two, she finally tells the others about her situation.<p>

She doesn't give out details, and she certainly doesn't name names, but all in all it seems to go well. Dale gives her a great big hug, and Lori just smiles at her, most likely relieved that it's finally all out in the open. Carol gives her a quick kiss on the cheek and wishes her well, then wanders off to the edge of the camp to be alone. Andrea can't help the pang of sadness she feels for the other woman in this moment, for a mother without a child.

She knows most of them assume that it's Shane, and she lets them – none of them will voice it outright, and Shane alone can wonder who else it might be. Rick comes over to congratulate her and wish her well, while Carl brings her a flower and tells her that he'll make sure to protect this baby like he will his new brother or sister, too. She can't help but smile at that, and thanks Carl for his consideration and protection.

She begins to get genuinely excited about the prospect of a baby. Now that it's out in the open, one less secret to keep hidden, she finds herself thinking about what life will be like with a child. This alone is an alien feeling to her – she's never really been the one to focus on babies and husbands and storybook lives. She guesses, though, that this isn't really a storybook situation anyways, with walkers on the roads and no husband or home in sight.

She's settling in for the night, getting comfortable in her sleeping bag, when she hears movement outside her tent, a shuffling as something draws closer and closer by. Immediately, her heart leaps into her throat and she reaches for her gun, unlocking the safety and loading a round into the chamber. She'd rather not have to fire off her gun out here, in the middle of the night, but she'd do it if she had to.

The shuffling draws closer and closer, and she begins to find it harder and harder to breathe. She can recognize the disjointed movement of a walker, the way their steps are uncoordinated and sloppy, dragging themselves along through mindless instinct.

The movement comes to a stop in front of her tent, and through the mesh and the dim moonlight, she can see two, maybe three figures in front of her, and her heart sinks. How on earth was she going to be able to get all three in a row, at this close range?

She readies her weapon, and as she does, the first of them presses its face to the mesh wall of her tent, leering at her through decomposed skin and deadened eyes. It begins to claw at the mesh, and she tries to steady herself, but suddenly all she can think about is her baby and what kind of world she is bringing it into, and she's frozen, unable to move or think or breathe –

That's when the arrow pierces the walker's skull, and it crumples to the ground, instantly defeated.

There's more movement outside, along with voices calling for backup and lights being moved around, but everything seems muffled to her, as if she was watching it all through a television screen, miles away. Dimly, through the fog, she realizes that she must be in shock, and some part of her grows angry at this, knowing that she'd moved past this (or so she'd thought) long ago.

"Are you okay?" a voice calls in through the mesh, originating from a shadow in the moonlight

"Yeah, I'm fine," she whispers, and the shadow moves away, dragging the bodies along with it.

Later (minutes or hours, she's not really sure), the shadow comes back, opening the zipper to her tent and letting itself inside. She's sitting upright on her sleeping bag, the gun still in her lap, eyes locked in front of her, not really focusing on anything at all. The shadow takes the gun from her gently, clearing the chamber and locking the safety, before gently touching her arm.

She blinks then, clearing her vision, and looks over to the figure beside her.

"Y'all good?" he asks again, blue eyes locking with her own.

She doesn't answer him right away, just shakes her head as the tears start to come. "I don't know what happened – I was ready, I had the gun, I was prepared – and then I thought... and I froze," she says, rambling.

She starts to shake, and deep inside of herself, she feels ashamed to be so weakened, so vulnerable.

He doesn't say anything else, just reaches out a hand to her, pulling her tight against him. He's warm and strong and all the things she can't be right now, and she doesn't want to let go.

They fall asleep like that, his arms wrapped around her, protecting her against the night and whatever other fears that might come alive in the dark.


	4. Day One Hundred and Sixty Two

**Again, thanks to everyone for reading, I really hope you are all enjoying it! Here's another one.**

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><p>On day one hundred and sixty two, Shane finally confronts her.<p>

She's sitting outside in the sun, preparing some sweet potatoes they'd raided from a farm they'd passed a few days ago. The sun is warm on her back, but not too warm, and she's enjoying this moment, of just being outside, content and peaceful.

That's when Shane decides to interrupt.

To be honest, she'd been expecting a… _discussion_ between them much sooner than this. After all, it wasn't like they were a big group, and he must have heard some murmurs and whispers about the paternity of her unborn child. Granted, he did seem more preoccupied these days than usual, most likely due to the fact that Lori was fast approaching her due date, and they would soon be unable to move for an extended period of time.

He comes up alongside of her, kneeling down in the grass by her feet. He doesn't say anything at first, just picking at the green blades rising up from the ground, pulling and yanking at them with his fingers.

"Unless my understanding of biology has been grossly inaccurate this whole time, I'd say you have some explaining to do," he says finally, looking up from the little pile of grass he'd made in front of him.

She shakes her head and smirks slightly. "I was wondering when you were going to come and ask me about that."

"So, what, you were just going to let everyone think this was on me? Because that's what they're all saying behind your back, Andrea – and behind my back too. And I really don't need the extra complication, not right now," he states, looking up at her.

She nods, and puts down the potato she'd been working on. "Yeah, I know." She looks down at him, and it seems like so long ago that he was training her to use her father's gun, to steady herself and take the shot. "I'm sorry for that."

He stops fiddling with the blades of grass, and nods slowly to himself. "Good." His eyes meet hers again, and he cranes his neck to one side, cocking an eyebrow. "So who is it then?" he asks, curious now.

"Divine intervention," she answers without missing a beat, and picks up the potato again.

"Now, that's not even fair, is it?" he says, pushing up on his knees and standing upright. "If you don't tell the others, they're going to keep thinking it's me, and I'm getting real tired of being looked at like I'm some deadbeat asshole."

"I'll tell them," she replies, eyes still focused on the task at hand. "But just because I'll tell them doesn't mean I have to tell you first."

He grunts some sort of response then, and she can hear his footsteps as he moves away from her and makes his way back towards the camp. She knows that she has a decision to make, and that Shane does have a good point, but this decision isn't hers alone.

* * *

><p>On day one hundred and sixty three, she decides to talk to Daryl about it.<p>

She can't put it off any longer. For all his character flaws and past mistakes, Shane is right – she can't keep letting him take all the fallout for this, and she knows she's lucky for having him stay quiet for this long. So when Daryl comes by her tent that evening, she tells him that they've got to come up with some sort of game plan.

"What do you want to tell them?" he asks, sitting as usual by the door. They've been getting closer and closer since the last attack on the camp, but she knows that a man like him isn't used to situations like this, where emotion is invested and the potential for hurt and pain is very real. To be fair, she doesn't really know what she wants either; so for now, they're simply moving forward as best they can.

"The truth," she says simply, and she knows she means it.

He chews on his lip, lost in thought, folding his hands and unfolding them again. "You think that'll go well?" he says finally, looking at her quizzically.

"Why wouldn't it?"

He just raises his eyebrows and shrugs, gesturing to himself with a wave of his hand.

She looks at him, dumbfounded. "You've got to be kidding me."

He snorts derisively, shaking his head. "No one's going to believe a girl like you with some guy like me."

She leans forward and just stares at him. "Are you serious?"

"C'mon girl, you can't tell me we'd be like this if the world hadn't gone to shit. Hell, we'd never have met! You'd be in your fancy clothes in your fancy apartment, and I'd be busting my balls making minimum at the yard. So don't tell me this bullshit about this –" he says, gesturing back and forth between them, "being any sort of normal, cause that just ain't true."

"That's bullshit," she replies, her voice filled with irritation.

"Is it?" he retorts, locking his eyes with hers. "Because I saw the way you and your sister looked at me when I rolled into camp. The way y'all looked at me, at Merle. You saw two dumbass rednecks with dirty faces and bloody clothes, and you turned away. I could hear some of you at night, 'round the campfire, talking shit about those trailer trash Dixons. If it hadn't been for my bow and good aim in getting dinner, I bet y'all would have left me, just like Merle." With that, he turns away from her, his eyes hidden from view in the shadows created by the fading light, and he goes to open the tent door.

"Wait," she says, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him back, closer to her. He moves to take his hand away, but her grip is tighter than he'd thought, and she presses her two hands against his.

"I don't know what we would have been like in that other world, Daryl. I don't. But I think you're right – in the way we lived our lives before, I doubt we would have ever met. And yeah, maybe I did judge you at first, the way you looked and spoke and acted. But that was so long ago now, and people change," she says, her voice growing ever softer. "I've changed. _You've_ changed."

He pulls his hand back from hers, and presses both palms to his eyes. "Whatever," he mumbles, but his tone betrays him, and she knows she's gotten through.

"Look at me," she says softly, reaching up and pulling his hands away from his face. His eyes meet hers, and she offers him a small smile.

Gently, she places her hands on either side of his mouth, and kisses him lightly, lips barely brushing against his. He freezes, but only for a moment, before moving his arms down and around her back, tentatively moving his lips against hers.

They eventually break apart, and she's relieved to see some of that tension gone from his face, leaving him more peaceful and calm than she's seen him in a long while. "Look, I don't know what this is, or where it's going, but I do know that this isn't the world it was before, and we don't have to be who we were before, either."

He doesn't say anything, only looks at her with that half-guarded expression he always seems to hold.

She grins at him half-heartedly, and sighs, exasperated. "Look," she says, "I can't always be the one making all the moves. That's how we got in trouble in the first place." She looks down at her hands, studying the way the moonlight moved across them, unsure of what to do next.

That's when his hand brushes against her jaw-line, and with his fingers, he tips her head up towards his own. He kisses her then, more powerfully than before, and she realizes that this is his answer, his response without the use of words. She kisses him back just as forcefully, feeling for the first time in a long time a sense of happiness begin to fill her veins, content and comfortable and just… _alive_.

He pushes against her, and they fall back onto her blankets and sleeping bag, and it's so different than before. Last time (so long ago), they'd been all frantic movement and raw energy, trying so hard to lose themselves in the moment and to free themselves from their constant pain. This time, everything seems to move so much more slowly, and he's the most gentle that she's ever seen. As he kisses her, touches her, she can't help but feel elated for the first time in… forever, almost.

He strips off his shirt, then moving to take off hers, and the feel of his hands on her body is almost too much for her to take. She'd missed this (and she knew that she had), the sensation of foreign skin brushing against her own, goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch. He drags his lips across her neck, her collarbone, her chest, and when he looks up again, there's a question in his eyes, silently asking. She kisses him in response, like he had before, and holds his body tight against hers.

Afterwards, as she regains her breath and starts to give into sleep, she wonders what exactly this will mean, both for them and for everyone. But then he reaches out an arm and pulls her towards him, and she pushes that thought away, away towards morning.


	5. Day One Hundred and Sixty Five

**Once again, you guys are so great! Thanks so much for reading; I really never intended to let this story go on for so long, but I just keep having more to say about it... so please, put up with me for a little while longer! :) **

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><p>On day one hundred and sixty five, Andrea makes good on her promise to Shane.<p>

They'd pulled up stakes and moved to a new location yesterday, after a storm had come along and potentially ruined their water source. Taking the back roads, they'd moved about fifty miles further west, managing to scavenge a fair amount of fuel from a group of abandoned cars they'd passed about twenty miles back. Their new location was a beautiful spot, a pull-out rest area along the banks of a fast moving river, which offered some protection from walker attacks with its deep waters and raging current.

They'd also raided an abandoned country store on their way to this spot, and though much had already been taken, they did manage to find a few things that they'd been missing, like pepper and powdered eggs. It's these eggs that they are all gathered around the fire eating when she decides, finally, to come clean about the last of the secrets she's been harbouring.

She notices that Carl's wandered off with Carol to the nearby meadow, picking flowers and playing in the grass. That's good, she decides, because though he's already been exposed to things far beyond his age, he doesn't need to be dragged into any more of the drama of the adults. Finishing up her breakfast, she puts her plate away, and looks over to Daryl, who's standing on the other side of the group, arms crossed and foot tapping away.

They've been careful to keep their… whatever they are from the group these last couple days, only meeting up at night when he comes over to her tent. He is – in fact, they both are – still hesitant about the whole affair, still uncertain and cautious and even awkward, sometimes. She's been in her fair share of relationships throughout her adult life, but as she spends more and more time with him, she's becoming convinced that's he's never dated a girl, ever. His lips and his tongue and his hands all know what to do, but it's in the moments afterward that she really notices his struggle with intimacy, his difficulty in waking up next to her and not immediately bolting, constantly in conflict with that fight or flight instinct that seems to be his default setting.

"Hey, everyone?" she calls out, and she can see their faces look up from their plates, idle chatter ceasing as they turn their attention to her. Shane in particular seems to focus on her very quickly, most likely relived that she is finally going to absolve him of any sort of perceived social sins (in regards to her, at least).

She runs a hand through her hair nervously, and is quite surprised to feel her heartbeat speed up, pulse racing a little faster now. She can't help the faint smile that creeps up onto her lips, as she recalls the first presentation she ever gave to the partners at her firm, nervous hands balling up at her sides as she waited to begin. Not exactly the same situation now, not even close, but the feeling of tension, of mild anxiety is pretty damn familiar.

She clears her throat, and jumps right in. "I know there's been some, uh, _talk_ about this whole baby thing of mine," she begins, gesturing down with one hand to the protrusion of her abdomen. "And I'd thought I'd clear some of these… misconceptions up."

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Daryl start to pace, all nervous energy and tense muscles, unable to keep still.

"I know you've all been curious about how I ended up pregnant," she continues, and she can't help but smirk at the sheepish expressions on some of their faces, or how red Glenn's cheeks get when she looks directly at him. Only Maggie doesn't seem all that embarrassed, and that's most likely because she's been with the group the least amount of time, and hasn't quite been brought up to speed on all the gossip. That, or she just honestly doesn't care, and Andrea has to admit that she kind of likes that idea. "I, uh, wanted to hold back for a little bit about some of the details, but then I realized that that wasn't necessarily fair to some people," she says, nodding in Shane's direction.

"It's not Shane's baby," she states outright, and she can see Shane visibly sigh with relief, finally free of that long-standing suspicion (though Andrea is pretty damn certain that her baby isn't the only baby on his mind…). "It wasn't right of me to let you assume that for as long as I did, and I'm sorry. It's still just –" she says, shaking her head, "so strange to me that we live in this world where what I do really does affect everyone else, and I'm still getting used to that." This is something she's been struggling with for a while, the fact that her actions or non-actions can literally affect everyone else in their little travelling band. She knows that when she has her baby, the whole group will have to stay put, and that every time her baby cries or whines or screams, the noise might bring the walkers down on all of them. The only relief she can find in this thought is the fact that Lori is in the exact same boat, and at least their children will close enough in age to minimise the amount of time the group is put in the most danger.

She watches them all react to this news in different ways: Maggie punches Glenn in the shoulder and whispers something that looks suspiciously like "I told you so" into his ear; Lori tries – and fails – to disguise the look of confusion that crosses her face; and Dale, quite amusingly, attempts to hide the smile that breaks out across his features, tipping his head down to hide his relief under the shadow created by the brim of his hat.

Daryl, for his part, just keeps pacing, chewing anxiously on the tip of one of his fingers.

"So?" prompts Shane, leaning forward in his chair, his impatience evident in his eyes. "Who is it then?"

All of their eyes are suddenly on her again, and she takes a deep breath. She's not quite sure how to say it, so she just does what comes naturally: she raises her chin and fixes her gaze on Daryl.

Silence pervades in the group in that moment, as all of them turn around to look at the man behind them, tracing circles in the dirt with his constant movement. He glares back at them, uneasy with all the attention focuses on him, and narrows his eyes as he looks them down."What?" he says, almost angrily, reacting in the only way that he really knows how.

Shane is the first to speak, placing a hand on his forehead and laughing derisively into his palm. "Seriously?" he asks, opening his eyes and looking up at her. "Really, Andrea? Him?" he says, scoffing at the idea.

Instantly, Daryl is on the offensive. "You got something you wanna say to me?" he growls, staring the other man down from across the camp.

Shane just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. "Nah, man, I just didn't peg her for the type that has a thing for backwater rednecks, that's all."

Andrea's prepared to step forward and stop Daryl from coming across the group and lashing out at Shane, but that's not what happens. To both her and everyone else's great surprise, he continues to pace a small hole into the ground on his side of the group, hands clenched at his sides and teeth grinding together – but he does not make a single move towards the other man. There's anger and fury in his face, in his eyes, but to his credit he does not move from his spot, holding himself back with everything he has.

Shane must be surprised too, because he only stares at Daryl with something akin to confusion in his eyes. He rises up from his chair and gives Andrea one last hard look before he walks out the other side of the camp, wandering off to somewhere else beyond the confines of their temporary home.

She lets go of the breath she didn't realize she was holding, and turns her attention back to the group. Lori's looking at her with some sort of incredulous expression, somewhere between surprise and relief. Glenn, Maggie, and T-Dogg all look somewhat shocked, but manage to keep a close approximation of a straight face. Rick, for his part, is already moving over to Daryl, extending a hand to the other man, congratulating him.

"Thanks," mutters Daryl quietly, returning the handshake with a certain amount of wariness in his eyes.

Dale follows right behind the sheriff, clapping him on the back and telling him that he'd better start getting used to the idea of less sleep and more stress. Soon all of them have recovered enough to congratulate him in some way or form, and though Daryl still looks like he might bolt at any given second, he does manage to stay put and receive all the attention coming his way.

They are still all milling about when Carol and Carl return to camp, both of them with a bouquet of handpicked flowers in their hands. Carl immediately brings his over to his mother, who thanks him for the beautiful gift, and Carol heads back towards the RV to put her bunch into a vase (or, more accurately, an old beer bottle) in order to keep them fresh.

"What's going on?" asks Carl, taking in all the activity around him.

Lori looks up to her, and she nods almost imperceptibly, and then turns to look back down at her son. "Andrea and Daryl are going to have a baby," she says, and the words seem so strange spoken out loud, finally acknowledged and recognized in oral form.

Carl looks up towards Daryl, and starts to smile. "Good," he says firmly, "that means we'll have someone else who will be good with a crossbow, too."

At that, she can't help but laugh, the sudden and ridiculous image of her baby emerging into life with a mini-crossbow in hand springing into her mind. They all start to laugh a little then, and she leans down towards Carl. "I think we might have to wait a couple years before that happens," she says, winking.

With that, she looks up to Daryl, still standing on the edge of camp, and offers him a gentle smile, silently thanking him for his restraint and resolve. He nods back in acknowledgment at her, then turns and heads in the opposite direction that Shane had gone, clearly eager and anxious for some time alone from everyone.

She takes a deep breath and sighs deeply, the air finally cleared between them all, and sits down in one of the empty chairs, relieved to finally be free of the secrets that had been haunting her for so long.


	6. Day Two Hundred

**As always, thanks for the absolutely fantastic support! I'm marking finals right now, but hopefully I'll get another one of these out tomorrow. Hope y'all enjoy! :) **

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><p>On day two hundred, she has her first real breakdown.<p>

So far into this whole pregnancy thing, she's found herself remarkably calm and collected about everything. Certainly, there was some stress involved in dealing first with keeping it a secret, and then telling Daryl, and then telling everyone, but overall, she's found herself adapting to everything a lot more easily than she ever would have thought.

Which was strange, really, when she got to thinking about it. It was strange how easily she'd accepted her new situation, how easily she'd gotten used to the changes in her body, but most of all, how easily she'd come to terms with this shift in her roles in life. Maybe it's a side effect of the civilized world coming to an end, maybe not – but all she knows is up to this point, she's adapted pretty damn well to her impending motherhood.

Until now.

She's sitting out on a stump on the edge of riverbank, staring down into the waters rushing by underneath her feet. The other are all doing their own thing; Carol and Rick have teamed up in a last ditch effort to familiarize themselves with what they'll need come time for Lori's impending delivery, while Shane, Maggie , Glenn, and T-Dogg have taken one of the vehicles about three miles down the road to raid an abandoned farmhouse that they'd scoped out two days ago. From her vantage point, she can see Dale and Carl about five hundred feet down the bank, attempting to catch some fish, and that does make her want to smile (but she can't quite manage it now, can she?).

She's not prone to breakdowns like these. She's never been known as a tearful person, more prone to anger and action then sobs and moans. Whenever she'd get irritated in college, she'd most likely be found in the gym, running her aggression out on the treadmill or swimming laps in the pool. But that was a different time, a different place, and she can't use those techniques anymore.

"Pull it together, Andrea," she whispers to herself, rubbing away at the tears trailing down her cheeks, blinking her eyes to clear her vision. Behind her, she can hear the sudden snap of a twig under foot, and she swings around, dropping her hands from her face and reaching out for the axe she'd brought with her (always be prepared).

"I ain't here for your brains," he says as he takes his final steps towards her. She breathes a sigh of relief and puts the weapon down, her heartbeat still thumping in her ears. He sits down beside her, a long piece of wild grass stuck in his mouth, as he looks up to take in the current situation she's in.

"You gonna tell me what all this –" he says, gesturing to the tear tracks on her face and the redness in her eyes, "is about?"

She sighs then, smiling woefully, and quickly brushes away the last little bit of moisture from her right cheek. "Rough day," she says simply, crossing her hands in her lap and looking down at him in the dirt beside her.

He doesn't say anything, just continues chewing on that piece of grass, staring out to the water moving below.

_Well, fine then_, she thinks to herself, and takes a moment to think about how exactly to voice to him what's been weighing on her mind.

"What do you think he'll remember about his childhood?" she asks, gesturing down to the boy on the water's edge, practicing his casting and laughing as he tries his best to reel it back it, catching only weeds and what appears to be an old potato chip bag.

"Dunno. Walkers, I guess, now. Toys, playing in the park, goin' to school, that kinda stuff."

"What do you remember?" she says to him, gaze still fixed on the smaller figure down by the river.

He takes a moment to answer, and she can't help but wonder what goes on in that mind of his, what he hides and conceals from everyone else. "Huntin', I guess. Playin' with Merle. That one Christmas with my grandma. Hide n'seek in the woods. Normal kid stuff."

A long moment passes, before she turns to him again, eyes locking with his. "What kind of childhood is our child going to remember?" she whispers, and her gaze fills with tears.

He freezes, not at all certain of what to say or do or even think. She can see it in his eyes, reflected back into her own, but then she can't hold it back any longer, and suddenly her vision is gone, blocked by the moisture that tumbles down her cheeks in tiny rivulets, moving down towards her chin and dropping off into the dirt below. All she can think to herself is _pull it together, get a hold of yourself_, but every time she does, she sees a blue eyed child cowering in a corner, hiding and running and scared, always scared. Because instead of hide and seek amongst the trees, the woods are filled with monsters, just like the streets and the farms and the roads. Instead of playing in the yard and going to school it is constant vigilance and learning from books, always on the run. Instead of colouring books and sing-alongs and birthday parties, it's blood and screams and vigils for the dead.

She rubs at her forehead and places her head in her hands, sobbing freely now. Above everything else she feels, the guilt is the most difficult to contend with, the sensation of total horror at her responsibility in bringing a new life into this godforsaken world.

The sudden touch of his hand on her arm is what brings her back to reality, and she pulls away from her hands to find him looking up at her.

"What d'you remember the most about being a kid?" he asks softly, locking his gaze with hers.

She stares down at him, not totally comprehending what he wants. "The same stuff you do – playing games, running in the park, birthday parties -"

He shakes his head, cutting her off mid-sentence. "No - what d'you remember _best_?"

"Being loved," she says without thinking, surprising herself with the realization that it was true. She remembers the smiles from her grandparents whenever she'd come to visit, the hugs her mother would give her on her way to school, the kiss her father would place on her head each night when he'd tuck her in, safe and warm. Everywhere she went, everything she did, she always felt so unconditionally loved, secure in the knowledge that people cared for her no matter what.

"Yeah," she whispers, again. "Being loved."

"Well, we can do that, yeah? That ain't so hard," he says, looking for confirmation.

She nods her head then, blinking back more tears. "Yeah," she manages to murmur, "I think we can."

She takes his hand off of her arm then and squeezes it tight, resting them both against her stomach as they watch Carl try to reel another fish in, Dale yelling his encouragement all the while.

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><p>In the twilight of day two hundred, he feels the baby kick against his hand for the first time.<p>

They are lying in her tent, which has for all intents and purposes become _their _tent, somewhere in between the states of wakefulness and sleep. She is lying with her head in the crook between his shoulder and arm, her own limb draped over his chest, enjoying the feeling of being so close, like she belongs. It's taken a while to get to this point, for him to be comfortable with this amount of prolonged physical contact, especially when it's not directly related to the act of sex. They don't always sleep like this, next to each other, skin on skin. In fact, more often than not she'll wake up in the middle of the night to find him on the other side of the tent, one blanket tossed haphazardly on top of him, lying alone. While she wishes he'd stay close, she also knows how hard it must be to break a lifetime of habits, to get used to the heat of another body next to you, the sound of that body in sleep, the smell of another person invading your own personal zone.

But tonight, probably due to her earlier emotional showing, he's holding her close, and there's nowhere else she'd like to be.

She's just about to fall over the edge and into sleep when she feels the baby start to move inside of her, unwilling to cooperate with her own personal schedule.

She sighs and falls backwards, against her own pillow. She'd been feeling the movement on and off for the past few weeks, and while she was quite thrilled with it at first, having kicks directed at you from within your own body made it very difficult for her to fall asleep.

"You good?" he mumbles at her, very clearly near the edge of sleep as well.

"Apparently I'm not ready for sleep after all," she remarks wryly, leaning back onto the pillow fully and staring up at the roof of the tent.

"Hmm?" he says, not quite understanding.

"Here," she answers, reaching out and taking one of his hands. She moves it over to directly above her body, and places it right on the top of her protruding belly. "Can you feel that?" she asks him, moving his hand until it is parallel to the area with most action, little thumps against the palm of their hands.

In a heartbeat, he is sitting upright, suddenly alert and awake. Even in the dim light, she can see his eyes are wide open, staring dumbfounded down at the scene in front of him.

"Is that...?" he asks softly, almost reverentially, and she grows confused at his reaction, so surprised and amazed.

"Haven't you felt this before?" she replies, but even as she poses him the question, it begins to dawn on her that maybe he really hasn't felt this before, the feeling of tiny feet pushing outwards towards the wide world beyond. He isn't much for casual shows of affection, and they really only came into close contact with each other before sleep, with not much physical interaction between them in the daylight.

His lack of verbal response confirms her thought, and she is overcome with the sensation of guilt for not having shown him this before.

But before she can say anything, before she can apologize for her lack of consideration, he turns his attention to her, though his hand still stays firmly placed on her stomach. "That's our baby, isn't it?" he says, in awe, and she can see that lost little boy still inside him, curious and inquisitive and full of wonderment at it all.

"Yeah, it is," she answers softly, smiling at him in the dark. Her heart leaps up into her throat at his statement, and suddenly all the worries of the day don't feel so terrible and awful anymore. Suddenly she feels like maybe, just maybe, this tiny little soul might have a chance out here in the big world after all.

She falls asleep before he does, his hand still pressed up along her belly, the warmth of his touch lulling her into the peaceful abyss of sleep.


	7. Day Two Hundred and Twelve

**A little bit of a wait on this one, but it's here! Thanks again for reading, y'all. You're the best! :) **

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><p>On day two hundred and twelve, Lori goes into labour.<p>

They've been expecting this for some time, and for the most part, are ready for it. The group have all moved into a small farmhouse far off the beaten trail, abandoned around the start of the spread of the walkers and left in pretty good condition. There wasn't much to be found in the house for food or supplies, but over a couple of days and a few scouting expeditions, they'd managed to collect enough for the next little while.

There are a couple of bedrooms on the main floor along with a kitchen and two bathrooms, giving them plenty of space to move around it. The water source on the property is from a well, given them easy access to both drinking water and cleansing showers, a definite step-up from what they'd been making do with before. Lori, Rick, and Carl have set up shop in one of the two rooms, with the others cycling through the second bedroom, giving everyone a chance to enjoy sleeping in a real bed for a change. They'd originally insisted on giving her full lease on the room, but she'd stood her ground and told them all to shove it, everyone would get a turn. It seemed only fair when, in two months' time, they'd have to repeat this whole thing again for her.

She's definitely quite grateful of the fact that she is far enough along in her pregnancy to not be of much help in the actual delivery of Lori's baby, as she's never been especially good at using any sort of medical skills, let alone being entrusted to safely bring a tiny human being into the world. Thankfully, Carol is relatively familiar with the ins and outs of the whole birthing procedure, and for the past three months both her and Rick have been pouring over every single midwifery and birthing book they can lay their hands on.

They're both in the main bedroom right now, and have been for the past three hours, alternating between holding Lori's hand and encouraging her to staying out of her reach and trying to calm her down. She'd volunteered to be in there with them to help, but she'd been told to stay in the living room for now, and they'd call her in if need be. So she'd retreated to the living room and established a waiting post, flipping through old newspapers and trying her best not to think about how it'll feel when she's the one screaming and yelling in pain.

Maggie and Glenn have joined her in their makeshift waiting room, entertaining themselves by playing chess and chatting happily. Dale and Carl are outside in the RV, away from all the commotion, working on a gift that the soon-to-be big brother is fashioning for his new sibling. Shane is on watch duty, with T-Dogg sleeping in preparation for his own upcoming shift, the two of them volunteering to cover the post between themselves for the night. She figures Shane needs something to do, something to focus his attention on with everything going on inside the house. Her suspicions have been growing ever since that day at the church, ages ago, when she'd overheard something she wasn't supposed to hear. And while she can't bring herself to actually like the man anymore, she can still recognize the fact that this must be difficult for him, to watch the woman he once loved give birth to a child that may or may not be his.

She's re-reading the community events section of a two-year old local County Tribune paper when she hears the front door open, the creaking in its hinges announcing someone's arrival. She looks up to see Daryl making his way over to her, grime on his face, crossbow on his back. He's holding a pair of rabbits he must have tracked out in the fields, both of them relatively healthy looking specimens.

"Ooh, rabbits!" remarks Maggie, looking up from the chess board to the new arrival in the room. She gets up and comes over to the hunter, extending a hand out to take his catch from him. "I can clean them for you, if you'd like," she offers, smiling kindly at him. Andrea sneaks a peek down at the chessboard the other woman had just left behind, and remarks with a wry smile that her good humour might be from the fact that she was absolutely destroying Glenn in this game.

"I'll give you a hand," says the younger man, sounding decidedly less chipper than his girlfriend.

The two of them wander off to the kitchen to work on their new task, chatting happily about how good these two rabbits will be in a stew, a nice change from the canned stuff they'd been eating for these past few days.

Daryl watches them disappear into the kitchen, then moves towards the empty couch across from her. He drops his bow by the side of the coffee table, and drops down onto the sofa, sprawling across the cushions. He stretches and sighs, then looks over to her through squinting eyes.

"Everyone still alive in there?" he asks, gesturing lazily in the general direction of the bedroom.

She laughs, closing the newspaper and leaning back onto the cushions behind her. "I think so," she answers, while stretching out her arms behind her head. "I still hear voices and yelling from time to time, so someone must be."

"You ready for that? Yellin' and screamin' and cursin'?"

She scoffs at him, amused. "Oh, I think the question should be more, are _you _ready for that? I'm fairly certain all my yelling and screaming and cursing will be directed at someone in particular."

He shrugs, nodding his head in acknowledgement, accepting his fate. "Seems only fair, I s'pose."

They sit in silence for a few moments, as she watches him fiddle with a few of his makeshift arrows, straightening the point on one of them and checking another for structural integrity. She can hear Rick in the next room, speaking words of encouragement to his ever-suffering wife, while Maggie and Glenn make a fair amount of noise taking apart the kitchen looking for supplies for their stew.

"I don't know if I'm ready," she says finally, having considered the question a while longer.

He cranes his neck to look up at her from his position on the couch, arrows still in hand. "Yeah?"

She rubs her stomach almost unconsciously, as if soothing herself through the physical reminder that her baby is still safe from this world for a little while longer. "Lori's already had a baby before, she knows what it's like. And the first time she had a baby, there were doctors and nurses and equipment – not to mention medication and drugs. But I've never done this before, I've never even been in the room with a woman in labour. What if –" she says, her voice dropping down to a whisper, "what if I can't handle it?"

He surprises her by chuckling, his laughter reaching her from his prone position on the couch. He shifts himself up to a seated position, looking over at her. "That's bullshit," he says, his eyes meeting hers.

She narrows her eyes, almost angry. "How do you know?"

"You think after all the crap we've been through – all the crap _you've_ been through – you can't handle a little physical pain? After all the shit we've seen and done, you think this'll be what breaks you? I call bullshit."

She keeps staring at him then, and her rising anger ebbs away, calmed by his (poorly worded) reassurances. He's right, she knows that. After everything that had happened, after midnight attacks and brutal losses and the constant running, is this really what she thinks will break her?

She gives him a small smile. "How do you always know what to say, in the worst possible way to say it?"

He shrugs, and leans across the cushions to get closer to her. "Practice," he answers, before grabbing her at the base of the neck and kissing her deeply.

They are still intertwined like that when the door to the bedroom opens and Carol emerges, calling down the hallway for Andrea. She breaks their embrace gingerly, and lifts herself up off of the couch.

"Thanks," she says, looking down at him.

"Anytime," he answers, shrugging, before shooing her off towards the bedroom and her responsibilities inside.

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><p>On day two hundred and thirteen (though just barely), Lori and Rick have a baby girl.<p>

Screaming and wailing, the new infant emerges into life in perfect health, with all fingers and toes all accounted for. Everyone is all tears, from Lori to Rick to Carol in the room itself (who most likely are crying both from happiness and exhaustion) to Glenn and Maggie and even Dale, shedding a happy tear or two when he sets eyes on the newborn.

Carl is the perfect new brother, bringing in the blanket and onesie he and Dale had scrounged around for during scavenging expeditions. They take turns holding the new baby, except for Shane, who'd volunteered to stay on watch while everyone congratulated the Grimes on the new addition to their family.

Daryl's the last (as one would expect) to welcome the new baby, standing back by the door of the bedroom, silent and brooding. She's been holding the baby for a little while now, just marvelling in its tiny features: little nose, little mouth, little tiny fingers.

"Do you want to hold her?" she asks, turning to face him completely.

His face goes totally white in an instant, and he takes a step backwards. They all erupt into laughter around him, which only makes him narrow his eyes and look at them all with suspicion.

"Nah, I'm good," he responds, hiding his hands behind his back.

"You're going to have to get used to it soon, son," replies Dale, chuckling.

"I still got time," he snaps back, moving away from the door and disappearing into the living room.

"You might have some work to do, Andrea," remarks Carol softly.

She just smiles down at the baby in her arms, unconcerned. "I think we can work on that, can't we?" she says softly, gently stroking the infant's tiny hand. "We'll take him on together."

They all share a laugh in that, continuing to celebrate the arrival of their group's newest member, all trying so hard to hold onto this first real moment of happiness they've all had in a very, very long time.


	8. Day Two Hundred and Twenty Nine

**Hey all! I am done marking (finally), so I rewarded myself with some writing. Hopefully you enjoy it.**

**As always, your reviews and comments are much appreciated. It really makes me happy to know someone out there is enjoying this, too. You guys rock. :) **

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><p>On day two hundred and twenty nine, Dale comes to talk with her.<p>

They've been lucky with the weather, as of late; for four days now, the heat has been tolerable, with a breeze running through the fields and the trees, keeping everything at comfortable temperature for once. Everyone's outside today, enjoying this shift in their environment, taking advantage of every moment they get. Rick and Carl are out passing a soccer ball in the little yard behind the house, while Glenn stays on watch and Maggie suns herself out on the back deck. Daryl's nowhere to be found – he'd lit out at the crack of dawn to try and find a deer he'd put an arrow in yesterday, hoping that he'd wounded it enough to slow it down for him to take a second shot today.

She's sitting out on the front porch, reading a book. She can't help but feel good in this moment, finally comfortable enough in this mild and reasonable temperature. Not too hot, not too cold – just right.

He sits down beside her, and she stops herself from jumping up with surprise – she hadn't heard him approach, too engrossed in the technical aspects of alternative birthing methods.

"Studying?" he asks her, tipping his hat down a bit to keep the sunlight out of his eyes.

She closes the book gently and sets it down beside her. "I really didn't know about all these different birthing options... and I'm not so sure I wanted to know."

He chuckles at that. "Ah, but knowledge is power, is it not?"

"Power to vomit, maybe," she replies, grimacing slightly at the memory of certain things she'd seen in this remarkably (unfortunately?) detailed book.

He leans back on the steps, propping himself up on his elbows. "It's so beautiful out today."

She turns her head to look out in the direction he's looking, taking in the sight of father and son pitted against in each other in the noble sport of soccer, battling each other with laughter and playful punches and gentle tackles in the long grass. They sit there for a long moment, silent together.

"I understand now, Dale," she says softly.

He shifts, looking back at her. "What's that?"

"Why you said what you did to me in the CDC."

"Oh, that," he replies, removing his hat and rubbing at the top of his head. "I thought you said I was wrong for that."

"I didn't say you weren't wrong," she points out, tipping her head to the side and looking straight at him. "But I do understand now. What you meant about coming into someone's life, caring about them, caring about what happens to them. I get it."

"I'm glad," he replies, nodding slowly, as they both look at each other, finally meeting in the middle. Silence pervades the air between them once more, and they both look back out to the yard, spectators to the world around them.

"How do you feel about it now?" he finally asks, looking down at his hands on his lap, then up to her. "Are you happy you didn't stay?"

She doesn't answer him immediately, debating whether or not to tell him that she asks herself this question every single day. At first, the answer had always been a resounding _no_ – a residual effect from the anger she felt at her choice being taken away from her, at the fact that she could go on living and Amy could not. As the days passed on, and she began to come to terms with her enduring survival, her answer became shakier and shakier – until the day when she realized she was pregnant, and the whole world changed.

After that, the question became a ritual, a reminder to herself to treasure all these days she had because she hadn't stayed.

"I am," she finally answers, turning to meet his gaze. "It took me a while, but I got there, Dale."

He nods once, jaw set and firm. "Good."

She smiles at him, then, and takes his hand in hers, squeezing it tight. "But god, were you a pain in my ass for a while there," she says, shaking her head. "I wanted to wring your neck on a couple occasions."

He scoffs, but smiles as he does it. "What about me? When you came back after shooting with Shane, I just knew you and him had..." he clears his throat, and continues, "I couldn't help thinking what a _terrible_ choice he was, and I just wanted to shake some sense into you."

She laughs at that. "Fair enough."

"Daryl's a good man," he says suddenly, his face more serious now. "He's rough around the edges and I do sincerely believe that he might be one of the most hot-tempered people I've encountered, but he's honest and loyal and reliable."

It's her turn to scoff. "Thanks, Dad," she replies, rolling her eyes.

"I mean it," he insists, wrapping both of his hands around hers. "I'm happy for you."

She looks at him then, and nods slowly. "Thank you."

He grins at her, and she's pleased to see it's a grin like the ones he used to have when Amy was alive, when they'd tease him and joke with him and laugh, together. "No problem."

He leaves her there on the deck, and she spends the rest of the afternoon staring off into the distance, simply enjoying each moment and, for the first time in a very long time, acknowledging how good it really felt to be alive.

* * *

><p>On day two hundred and thirty-eight, she asks the universe for a drink.<p>

No, not a drink. Good, strong scotch on the rocks. With that familiar taste that reminds her of Friday nights in law school, drinking at the bar with the boys. The aroma that brings her back to the one single celebratory drink she'd pour for herself after a successful ending to one of her cases. God, she wanted a drink. She had had one since that night in the barn, and that whiskey had been so bad that she'd choked it down out of a desire to blast her thoughts away into oblivion – and that's not what she wants the scotch for.

She wants scotch because it reminds her of how everything used to be.

She confesses this desire for an alcoholic libation one afternoon to Lori, both of them sitting together in the living room. She's organizing diapers and preparing emergency packs of supplies for the babies (in case they need to flee suddenly) while the other woman nurses her infant daughter.

"Have you ever wanted something you're not supposed to want?" she asks, out of the blue.

Lori raises an eyebrow at her. "Like what?" she replies, intrigued.

"Like a nice, chilled scotch. On the rocks. God, it would just be so..." Andrea answers, trailing off before finishing the thought.

The other woman laughs out loud at this. "I know what you mean," she replies, leaning forward while still balancing the baby at her breast. "When I was pregnant with Carl, all I wanted for a solid two months was a cold beer. It was the height of summer, and I would sit with Rick and Shane, and they'd be laughing together drinking their icy cold drinks, and I'd be sweating up a storm, sitting with my water and glaring at them something fierce."

Andrea smiles at the thought, fully capable of imagining what kind of fear Lori's glare might inspire.

"I miss those things," Lori finishes wistfully. "I miss cold beers and movie nights and baseball games."

"I just miss scotch and bubble baths," Andrea says.

Lori's eyes twinkle at her. "I heard that's not all you miss."

Andrea groans and looks over to the other woman. "Did Amy tell you that?"

"Oh yeah."

"Ah, well," she concedes, "I've got a replacement for that now, I guess. And he doesn't run on batteries."

Their laughter fills the room, and for a brief moment, reality is suspended and it feels like death isn't a constant threat on their doorstep. It feels like it did before everything ended, and she ends up forgetting about the scotch.

* * *

><p>On day two hundred and forty seven, she wakes up worried.<p>

She comes out of sleep panting and out of breath, her t-shirt stuck to her skin from the sweat covering her back. She pushes herself up into a sitting position instinctively, opening her eyes and throwing out her arms against some nameless fear.

Unfortunately, she ends up striking something else.

"Fuck!"

She looks down to see two irritated blue eyes looking up at her, face contorted in an expression of pain and aggravation. There's a growing welt on the side of his neck where she must have struck him, and he's holding his hand up against the spot, rubbing at it gingerly.

"Oh, shit," she says, reaching out to him, more calmly now. "Are you okay?"

"What the hell was that for?" he grumbles, waving away her hand.

She shakes her head, still filled with leftover confusion, spilling over from her dreams. "I don't know," she admits, rearranging herself so she can lie back down. She can tell from the amount of light trickling in through the window of their tent that it's still very early morning, and that she might as well go back to sleep.

"Y'okay?" he asks, some of the irritation gone from his voice (but not all).

"I think so."

"Did hittin' me in the goddamn neck help?"

She laughs softly. "Probably."

A long moment passes before he speaks again, and she surprised that he's still awake. "What did ya dream about?"

She can still feel the fear echoing within her, reverberating through her and pervading every part of her. "I can't remember," she answers, troubled. "But it wasn't good."

"Jus' a dream," he mumbles, sleepy now. He reaches out a hand and pulls her against him, and some of that fear washes away when she settles against him, happy for one of these rare moments when he initiates this type of contact, simple yet so meaningful. They sleep like that until a more reasonable hour, pressed against each other and holding on tight.

And yet, that whole day she can't get rid of that feeling, that knot in her gut that keeps her tight in its hold. It's with her all day, a constant shadow on her mind, a nameless weight on her soul. Why can't she shake this feeling that something is about to go horribly wrong?

That night, when Rick and Daryl don't come back from a hunting excursion, she realizes why.


	9. Day Two Hundred and Fifty Three

**Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays everyone! I'm leaving on vacation for six days, but I felt so awful that I hadn't updated that I quickly penned this chapter for y'all. Hope everyone is having a marvellous holiday so far! :)**

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><p>On day two hundred and fifty-three, Rick comes back, alone.<p>

The last six days have been pure and utter hell. After they didn't come home the first night, they'd all been worried, but had assumed that they'd simply had to hole up somewhere for the night. _They'll be back first thing in the morning_, Glenn had reassured her before they'd all settled in for the evening, patting her on the arm and trying to smile.

They didn't come back that morning. Or the next. Or the next.

She had wanted to go after them. Get a group together, head out into the woods, search on a grid like they had for Sophia, so long ago. She'd even gone so far to pack herself a survival kit and extra ammo before Shane had cornered her and asked her exactly how far she expected to make it, hoofing it through the fields and the bus, pointing down at belly and raising a very sceptical eyebrow. She finally conceded that he had a point; what good would an eight months pregnant woman really be in a long distance search party?

However, that wasn't their only problem in coming up with a group to go out and look for their missing compatriots. What were they left with, now? A pregnant woman, a nursing woman, an infant, a boy, a still grieving mother, an old man... Only Maggie, T-Dogg, Glenn, and Shane were the ones capable of truly venturing out into the wilderness to look for Rick and Daryl, and even that would be dangerous, sending out their four most capable people and leaving the others more vulnerable to attack. They all decide to only send two people out at a time, and only out for short distances, wanting to keep them close enough to camp that they could search for half the day, come back, and then send out two other people for the rest of the day.

Three days pass, and they find nothing. They don't have tracking skills good enough to detect the missing men's trajectory through the woods; though they won't say it, they all know they need _Daryl's_ tracking skills, and that's what makes this so difficult, so frustrating. How are they supposed to track down the two people who are the best at this kind of stuff; how are they supposed to find the men that they would send to find themselves?

She and Lori don't really sleep; Lori wouldn't really anyways, not with a new baby keeping her up at night, but they both can't simply retreat into their tents and forget about what's going on long enough to fall into a deep and restful sleep. Instead, they both sit in the living room into the darkest hours of the night, not really saying anything between them, just sitting and hoping and waiting, always waiting.

They are still waiting, watching, from their post in the house when they hear someone at the door, footsteps running up to the porch from the outside. Glenn bursts in, hair dishevelled and eyes wild, breathing hard from his race across the field to the house.

"He's back. Rick –" he pants, leaning on the wooden frame, "he's back."

Both of the women race off (as well as they can) behind him, leaving Carol behind with the children, asleep in the next room. The sun is rising along the horizon, pale light bathing everything in an almost ethereal glow, as they run to the fence line on the eastern side of the house, finding Shane and T-Dogg supporting a motionless figure between them, slowly making their way towards the house.

"Rick!" cries out Lori as they come closer, and the figure raises its head slowly, laboriously moving at the sound of her voice.

He is a mess of dirt and blood and sweat, his clothes stained and worn, missing one entire sleeve of his shirt on the left side. His gun is missing, but Andrea can see a bloody makeshift spear on the ground behind him, a hastily crafted weapon that has clearly seen some sort of battle. Her stomach starts to turn at this thought, and her eyes search the horizon for a second figure, hoping to see him emerge in the new light of the day.

"Rick," breathes the other woman again, finally reunited with her husband. Tears flow down her cheeks as she takes in his physical state, almost unrecognizable under all the grime and the blood.

"Lori," he mumbles, trying to look up at her, but he's too weak to hold his head up, and he slumps down, now a dead weight held up only by T-Dogg and Shane.

"We've got to get him inside," Glenn is saying, walking alongside them. "We've got to check him for wounds, make sure he's okay."

Andrea's stopped moving, still staring out at the rising sun, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

"Andrea?" calls out Dale, having left his watch post and climbed down off of the RV to join them all on the ground.

"He's gone," she whispers, and suddenly she can't think, can't breathe.

"Andrea!" cries out the other man, quickening his pace towards her.

"He's gone," she murmurs again, and suddenly there's pain in her abdomen, strong and fierce and unlike anything she's ever felt before. Her legs buckle, and she's falling, falling down into the dust and the gravel, saved from injury only by the hands that reach out to her just in time, cushioning her descent.

The last thing she sees before she passes out is the redness in the new dawn, morning light that looks like blood, splashed across the land and the sky.

* * *

><p>On day two hundred and fifty-four, she breaks her promise to Daryl.<p>

She's been in labour for eighteen hours, lying in the bed where Lori had been several weeks ago, huffing and puffing and just wishing she had a time machine to fast forward to the part where this was all over. So far, he's been right – this isn't the moment that breaks her, this isn't her battle to lose – she's adapted to the pain and fear and the exhaustion surprisingly well, though she knows that part of that is the numbness she still feels from his absence, her distraction from this moment by the thought that he might never come home.

She hates that he's not here. She hates that he's not beside her, where she can grab his hand and squeeze it tight, where she can curse his name and make him rue the day he was born. She hates that she can't have him here when this baby comes into the world, mewling and crying and real, shifting states from theoretical idea to physical entity.

Weeks ago, lying in bed one night, wrapped around each other and floating in that blissful space between sex and sleep, he'd told her that she had to promise to wait for him. He told her that if he wasn't around, gone hunting or out for supplies or whatever, that she had better damn well wait for him. He didn't want to miss that moment, that moment when he ceased to be responsible for only himself and became the thing he'd once feared the most: a father.

But she has to break that promise to him now. She can't wait any longer; she couldn't even if she tried. It's all biology now: all positive feedback loops and hormones, muscles and blood and things far beyond her control. She can't help the way she keeps looking back towards the door, past Carol and Lori, past Rick leaning on the back wall, out past the wooden framework and down the hallway beyond. Part of her can't help but do this, as if the mere act of hoping and wishing and praying will make him appear in the hallway, dirty and grimy but safe, waltzing in late to the party, coming in to grin at her slyly when she asks him what took him so long.

That hoping and wishing and praying didn't bring Amy back, and it won't bring him back now.

"You have to push, Andrea," Carol is saying, and it's Lori who's squeezing her hand now, holding it tight. She does what the other woman tells her too, straining and fighting, working as hard as she can to bring her baby into the world.

When Carol finally places her new daughter into her arms, everyone's crying just like they were when Lori was in this spot, all tears and smiles. They congratulate her and marvel over the infant in her arms, all toes and fingers accounted for. She's crying too – her tears tumbling down onto the face of her baby, and she struggles to brush them away through the blurry veil of her vision. She's happy in this moment – but her happiness is irrevocably tainted with the overwhelming sensation of sadness at the absence of a certain sandy-haired redneck, whose hands should be touching the soft skin of their newborn, whose eyes should be locked in awe at the movement of ten tiny toes, and whose voice should be the second thing their daughter heard upon her arrival, welcoming her to this brave new world, reassuring them both that they'll never be alone.


	10. Day Two Hundred and Sixty One

**Hi all! Hope you all had a marvellous holiday season. Thanks for being so patient, I have finally had a chance to update. Hope you all enjoy. :) **

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><p>On day two hundred and sixty one, she slaps Dale.<p>

She doesn't mean to, and she is all apologies and tears and full of emotion immediately afterwards, begging his forgiveness and rushing off to grab him ice for his reddening cheek. Not that her rushing off is particularly fast – in her post-delivery condition, her top speed is – at best – a regular person's crawl.

He'd come over to her with the best intentions , just trying to speak with her, but since the birth of her daughter seven days ago, and the disappearance of her daughter's father mere days before that, she's been anything but sociable. Between the fear and concern for the missing to the hormones and emotions and pain associated with the newborn, she's become a mess of a human being, unable to even truly recognize herself. One minute she'll be all smiles and laughter directed at the infant in her arms, and the next minute she'll be all sobs and tears, overwhelmed with the feelings of guilt and loss.

It pisses her off, to be this "unstable". She's always prided herself on being a strong person, someone who doesn't back down from adversity and who doesn't give into self-pity or despair. But she's changed, now, suddenly and abruptly, into a person that she doesn't really know. She acknowledges the role of post-partum hormones and mechanisms in this change, and she can understand how that makes her act so differently and so abnormally – but she also knows that it's not just that alone. It's the thought of having lost the first person in a long time that makes her feel safe and loved - the same person that should be here to hold his daughter in his arms- that makes her feel adrift in a sea of despair, tossed about in waves of sadness and desperation.

When Dale had come to sit with her (her daughter having been taken by a smiling Maggie several minutes earlier), she'd been happy to see him. Dale had been the one to catch her as she fell in the dust on the morning of Rick's return, he'd been the one to bring her water and ice during her delivery, and he'd been the one to reassure that everything was going to be okay.

Today, however, he seems to have changed his tune, somewhat.

"Good morning," he says to her, sitting down beside her in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in front of them both.

"'Morning," she replies softly, still listening to Maggie spout absurdities to the infant in her arms, over in the next room.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, taking a sip of his coffee, only lukewarm now but still a much enjoyed luxury.

She doesn't answer immediately, mulling over the question in her mind, weighing it carefully. "Better than yesterday," she says finally, before draining the last of the warm liquid in her mug, savouring the last drops as they descend down her throat. She hadn't let herself drink any coffee during her pregnancy, and she still couldn't have all that much, but today she'd poured herself half a cup and rejoiced in it, one tiny source of comfort amidst everything else going on.

He nods, pleased enough.

A door slams, and footsteps cross the living room, moving towards the kitchen. "Dale –" a voice calls out, and then Shane steps through the doorway, looking in. "Hav-" he starts, before he sees her sitting at the table as well. He locks eyes with the older man, and nods once, almost imperceptibly. "Oh," he says, "never mind." He disappears as quickly as he had appeared; only the sound of the door swinging closed again signals his return to the yard outside.

"What was that about?" she asks, looking directly at Dale. Something had happened there, something strange – a look passed between the two men in that moment, a look that she wasn't entirely sure she was happy about.

The older man sighs, and places his cup down on the table. "Andrea, the others have asked me to... to talk to you about something."

She doesn't say anything, only narrows her eyes as she looks at him, wary.

"There have been more walkers getting closer and closer to the house these past couple of days – Glenn shot two of them this morning. It's, uh, it's not the same safe haven it was before."

She sneers at him, instantly defensive, knowing deep inside exactly where this is leading to. "We can't handle a couple of walkers, Dale?"

"You and I both know it's not just going to be a couple walkers, Andrea."

She shakes her head, as if the idea of leaving was a fly on her skin, trying to knock it away. "We can't leave. My daughter's only a week old. We can't get on the road again."

There's sadness in his eyes as he looks at her, maybe even pity. This only serves to make her angrier as he opens his mouth to reply to her. "You're doing fine now, you both are. It'll be safer for everyone if we make it out of here before a herd comes along. You remember that Rick said, about that campground where he and Daryl were ambushed – he said there were dozens of them, maybe even hundreds , and that was only four or five miles from here."

_He sat next to her while she lay in the bed, resting as best as she could, Carol holding her sleeping newborn in the rocking chair next to the bed. Even a day later he still looked like hell - they'd dragged him inside of the house and dressed his wounds after she'd collapsed. Luckily enough there were no bite marks marring his skin, only new bruises and cuts and a broken thumb, most likely all injuries sustained in his escape from whatever had befallen them. _

"_We – uh – we were tracking a deer," he starts softly, "A buck. A big one. It- it wandered down into a valley, and we followed it. We'd – we'd shot a few walkers on our way in but we, uh, we..." He is looking down at his own hands, folding and unfolding them, nervous energy coursing through him._

_She only stares at him, still feeling strangely numb, detached from every one and every moment._

"_We'd shot it once, just a grazing shot though, and it was scared enough that it wasn't really paying attention to where it was running, just- just going full tilt into that valley. We – uh, we followed it as fast we could; we didn't even see the campers and the tents until it was too late."_

_He finally works up the courage to lift his eyes to meet hers, and she realizes that she is thankful for that. Rick Grimes was not a man to shy away from the truth; they'd all seen that when Sophia had come out of that barn and changed everything._

"_It was hell down there," he says softly, "it was like refugee camp. People must've gone there after the cities were overrun, but then the walkers got to them anyways. They were all over the deer, and Daryl and I – we got separated. I tried to run but they swarmed me, and I – I must have just ran for it. I fell down the side of a ledge and passed out... I couldn't make it back to the campground without trying to get through those walkers... I'm so sorry..." he says, but his voice is fading, fading away until she can't hear anything anymore._

"We don't know if they'll come this way," she says to him, still unwilling to even consider it. How can they just leave like this? This isn't like Sophia – this is Daryl. If anyone could survive that, if anyone could make it out of there, wouldn't it be him?

"It's been almost two weeks, Andrea," the older man is murmuring to her, reaching out to grab her hand. "He's... he's not coming back."

The sound of her hand meeting the flesh of his cheek reverberates throughout the kitchen, before she can even comprehend what she's done.

* * *

><p>On day two hundred and sixty two, they make ready to leave camp.<p>

She'd refused to help at first – like a petulant child – but she'd relented fairly quickly, recognizing that she really had no choice. How on earth was she going to defend herself and a newborn against a lone walker, let alone a herd (if what the others were saying was true)? So she'd gathered up hers and her daughter's few items, packing them into the RV with the rest of their things. Dale had offered to let her ride with him, giving her the bed in the back to maximise her comfort, and so she takes him up on his offer, still unhappy but completely out of other options.

The plan is to leave at noon, after they've packed the vehicles full and prepared everything they need. The goal is to make it to an isolated farmhouse they'd spotted on a local aerial map the previous owner had had; it was about ten miles down the road, straight west. There they'd scope out any supplies they could find and then just continue taking it slow, heading for what they hoped might be salvation in the mountains far, far beyond.

She's loathing the moment when they have to go. This is where her daughter was born, the only link she has left to the person who'd become her solace in this world full of pain and monsters. She's loathing the fact that they are leaving before they even find out what happened to him, whether or not he'd been bitten or had fallen or had "opted out" (though she was confident he'd never go for that option). But most of all, she's loathing how this makes her feel, how leaving here is tantamount to abandoning him to his fate, leaving him to the corpses and the diseased and the damned.

"You ready?" asks Maggie, coming up behind her and placing a hand on her back.

She looks down at her sleeping daughter in her arms. "No," she answers, "but I'll come anyways."

They all load up into their respective vehicles; Dale, herself, her daughter, Glenn and Maggie in the RV, with the Grimes and Carol in the old wagon and T-Dogg with Shane in the truck at the rear. The engines are all running, and it all seems so surreal, to be in this moment when they leave this place behind. She stares out of the window as the RV roars to life, rocking her daughter in her arms, watching as the landscape starts to move, rolling slowly away from the farm where so much has happened.

"Goodbye," she whispers softly, resting her hand against the window pane, trying her damndest not to let the tears in her eyes fall.

They're just about to pull away from the driveway when the RV stops suddenly, Dale straining to look out the side of the window. He's yelling something to Rick behind him, pointing down to the ditch between the dirt driveway and the paved road.

She follows his pointing fingers, and suddenly freezes, eyes finding what Maggie and Glenn are now rushing out of the RV to, running outside and tearing down into the ditch.

There's a body sprawled out next to the culvert running under the makeshift road. A body wearing, under all the grime and blood, a sleeveless plaid shirt, crossbow still clutched in one hand, facedown in the grass and the mud.


	11. Day Two Hundred and Sixty Seven

**Hey all! Sorry about the long wait... unfortunately, longer waits will be becoming the norm. It's the start of a new semester, and I've got work and teaching and my thesis all on the go again. However, this story means a LOT to me, so it will continue to be updated regularly, just a little more slowly than it was at the beginning. :)**

**As always, your support and appreciation means the world to me. Hope you continue to enjoy the story!**

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><p>On day two hundred and sixty seven, he wakes up.<p>

_She'd barely been able to breathe when she'd spotted the figure down in the mud and the grass, face hidden from view. She watches now, frozen, as the others ran and tumbled and fell into the ditch, scrambling towards the body. She can hear Shane shouting, something about "making sure", but the others don't seem to listen, with Glenn and Maggie kneeling down on one side while Dale bends down on the other, making to roll the unmoving man over. Rick's standing above them, next to Shane, with their guns drawn, though she can see through tear-filled eyes that he is shaking, shaking with anticipation and fear and guilt at the sight of what might just be the dead body of the man he'd left behind._

_Suddenly, there's a noise behind her, and she turns back to see Carol rush into the RV, reaching out for the infant and gesturing for her to get outside, to go and see for herself. She doesn't even stop to question it, she just hands her daughter over with a quick kiss on the forehead and stumbles outside into the sunlight, legs heavy with tension and lungs breathless with expectation. _

"_Is it him?" she calls out when she gets close enough, hands knotted up in balls of tension at her sides, so tense that it physically hurts._

_They don't answer, not with words at least – working on rolling him over and checking for a pulse. That's when she sees the familiar cut of his hair, the shape of his jaw, and she clutches at her chest, unable to breathe._

"_He's still breathing," exclaims Glenn, incredulous, "he's still alive!"_

_That's the last thing she hears before she tumbles onto the grass, unable to cope with it all. _

They – meaning the others, since she had joined Daryl in the land of unconsciousness – had all decided to keep moving, to not risk staying at that particular farm any longer. So they'd checked him for bites and immediate wounds before moving him into the RV, with Carol taking the baby over to the Grimes' vehicle, just to be safe. Shane had carried Andrea back inside to the table area of the motorhome, which they'd converted into a makeshift bed, space becoming a sudden and immediate commodity.

She'd woken up on a strange couch in a strange room, blinking hard against the sudden light and trying unsuccessfully to orient herself. Carol was there, rocking her sleeping daughter in her arms, and all the panic that had been building up inside of her ebbed away, reassured by the sight of both her friend and her child.

"_Where is he?" she asks the other woman, wincing as she pushes herself upright, rubbing at the already bruising bump on her wrist, an injury that she must have incurred during her latest fainting spell._

"_Down the hall, in the bedroom. Rick, Dale, and Maggie are all with him. The others went out for... supplies."_

_She's moving down the corridor in an instant, ignoring the protests from her muscles and from the newly arrived sensations of pain. She pushes the door open and her heart almost threatens to stop, again, at the sight of him. _

_He's lying on his back in the middle of an old, rickety, metal-frame bed, eyes closed and body still unmoving. Someone's stripped his shirt and his pants off to treat his wounds, and he looks so strangely and uncharacteristically vulnerable, lying there only in his shorts and nothing else. There are bruises littered across his skin, some purple and yellowing, some freshly blue and red. There are healing cuts and new cuts, mixed in amongst the old scars and it pains her physically to see him like this, to see him so hurt and damaged. _

_What's the worst though, is the bandage across his left hand, the bandage that wraps around and over where two fingers should be._

"_Andrea," exclaims Dale as she comes into the room, moving to embrace her. "How are you feeling?"_

"_Fine," she says, slipping past him and coming closer to the bed. "How- how is he?"_

_Maggie's seated next to his prone form, putting away bandages and antibiotic creams. "He's in pretty rough shape. He's lost a lot of blood, got at least a couple cracked ribs as well as a concussion. Not to mention those two missing fingers and the fact that he probably hasn't eaten in several days."_

"_Wh-what happened?" she whispers, pulling up the last remaining chair to sit by his side, grabbing his right hand and placing in within her own. Her fingers rub at his skin, but he stays immobile, a soft and warm mannequin beside her. _

"_We don't know," answers Rick, looking over to her from his spot against the back wall, leaning against the large oak wardrobe behind him. "The ribs, the cuts, the bruises – that's probably all from his escape from that hell hole, god knows how he did it... but the fingers, those – those he seems to have cut off himself."_

_This stuns her, both mentally and physically. "What?" she breathes._

"_The wound is a clean cut, one quick motion straight down through both tissue and bone," says Maggie, taking over. "We thought it was a bite at first, but there's no way, it's just too clean and too polished. However, that's also where he lost a majority of his blood, though, since there was probably no way for him to wrap the wound or even cauterize it."_

_She can't even speak. What could have possibly happened that he would have cut off his own fingers? She knew what had happened to his brother in Atlanta, but that wasn't the case, that couldn't be the case..._

_And then her blood runs cold._

"_He- a bite..." she says, her words tumbling out, stupefied. _

"_That's what we think too," states Rick stoically. "But the wound is old, it's been healing for at least a week now. If it was a bite, he must have cut them off pretty much immediately after he was bitten. We don't think that he's infected, not after all this time, but we're going to have someone stand watch over him twenty-four seven until he wakes up."_

"_When is going to wake up?" she asks softly, though she already knows the answer, deep in her heart._

"_We don't know," replies Dale softly, placing a reassuring hands on her back and squeezing her shoulder tightly, reassuringly. _

_She stays there all night, her fingers intertwined with his, hoping against hope that every moment might bring the movement of his lips, or his eyes, or his limbs. _

Four days pass like this. She tries to ask the others why he won't wake up, why he doesn't simply return to the land of the living, but she can't get a straight answer no matter how hard she tries. Maggie tells her that his body is malnourished and dehydrated, injured and exhausted, and that it will take time for him to wake again, to be himself again. Dale tells her not to worry, to get some sleep, but she can't get any sleep, not with him like this, forever asleep. Rick tells her that he'll be fine, that he's strong, but she can't help but wonder if there isn't a limit to his strength, an outer boundary that might have been tested and then crossed, and now he is unable to return, caught on the other side.

She thinks about these things at night, when the others are all asleep save for Dale on watch outside and Rick on watch in the room, a silent presence in the corner of the bedroom, just waiting. She doesn't mind him there, though, since she's started to find herself falling asleep sitting up, especially when dawn draws near, unable to stay awake no matter how hard she tries.

She's teetering between the states of wakefulness and blissful sleep when she feels it, a slight brush against her thumb, the one that's curled around the base of his index finger, holding it tight and firm. This brings her back to full alertness, sitting up suddenly and causing Rick to jump forward, armed and ready.

"He – he moved," she says softly, her eyes locked onto him, watching and waiting for something else, for another sign.

A long moment passes and she almost gives up hope, resigning herself to the thought that it must have just been her imagination, fevered and overly optimistic, playing games with her head right before she fell off to sleep. But then she sees a foot start to twitch, and then a knee, and suddenly his whole body is moving, stretching and compressing, fully alive.

"Daryl?" she exclaims, her voice tight with emotion, with relief.

He slowly blinks his eyes open, eyelids parting to reveal those oh-so-familiar blue eyes, looking up at her and meeting her gaze. Her heart drops into her stomach, and tears spring unbidden to her eyes, so filled with emotion and relief at this development, after all this time.

"'Bo-bout fuc...fuckin' time," he rasps, voice harsh and dry, a brittle sound in the air, but beautiful all the same.

She just grins down at him, tears sliding freely down her face, as she reaches down and gently presses her lips to his cheek, welcoming him home.


	12. Day Two Hundred and Sixty Eight

**Okay, I'm breaking with pattern for this chapter and this chapter only! I was mulling over my intentions with this chapter, and I ended up with the conclusion that I really couldn't write it from any other point of view but Daryl's to achieve what I wanted to. So, for one chapter only, here is Daryl Dixon. Hope y'all enjoy. :) **

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><p>On day two hundred and sixty-eight, he meets his daughter for the first time.<p>

He'd woken up, briefly, the day before, long enough to see her face smiling down at him, to see her big beautiful eyes and that goddamn gorgeous smile. He'd never, _ever_ been so happy to see another human being in his whole life.

_As she brings her lips back up from his cheek, he notices that she's crying now, tears tumbling down her cheeks, sliding down her skin. "Hey," he says softly, his voice still broken and raspy, "I'm here."_

"_I know," she says, smiling down at him even more than before. "I know."_

_He falls back against the pillow again, his eyelids suddenly heavy, dragging him back into sleep. "I-I... ain't... goin' no-nowhere..." he mumbles, as he loses his battle against the advancing front of slumber. _

_The last thing he hears before the world falls away is her voice, still just music to his ears. "Me neither," she whispers._

He dreams about the campground. About those hellish days where he wasn't ever sure if he was going to live or die – all he knew was that if he was going down, he was going to take down as many of those rotting sons of bitches as he could with him. And there were a lot of those goddamn rotting sons of bitches to take down with him.

He dreams about when he and Rick had gotten split up, pushed apart by the onslaught of dead faces and rotting hands, reaching out maniacally for a taste of fresh blood, fresh meat. The deer had fucked off, bolting back into the woods, but he and Rick hadn't been so lucky. He'd called out for the other man as he hacked his way through the horde, but their moans and groans and gurgles had blocked out any other sound. All he could hear was them advancing and the sound of his heartbeat reverberating in his head, a steady rhythm that let him solely focus on the threat at hand, his own personal metronome keeping the beat and the pace of his battle.

He dreams about the bite. He'd been unable to get back to their original entry point, surrounded by too many bloodthirsty corpses, coming at him from all directions now. So he'd locked onto a nearby Airstream trailer, a big and solid affair, and made a beeline for it. Might as a well make a stand there, in style, right? He'd gotten to the door, yanked it open, stepped inside, and reached out a hand to close the entry way behind him, when he felt a sudden sensation of intense pressure on his hand. He'd looked down to see the yellowing, decaying teeth of some half-dressed teenager locked onto his fingers, and he'd just reacted so quickly, so instinctively, that he's still not sure exactly what happened. The next thing he knows he's down on the floor of the Airstream, door secured behind him, with blood gushing out of the spot on his left hand where his two outermost fingers should be.

He dreams about the pain he'd felt when he'd cauterized the wound, and how he'd kept thinking about his brother, knowing that somewhere out there, that bastard was having a laugh at his expense.

He dreams about the minutes and hours and days he spends wondering if this is the moment when he turns, when he ceases to be a living breathing human being and becomes the antithesis of humanity, a shambling shell of what he used to be.

He dreams about the day when he'd realized that he had to get out, to make a run for it. He was running out of supplies, running out of water, and he couldn't – _wouldn't_ – just wait in that trailer to die. He was a fuckin' Dixon, goddamnit – he'd been through way worse shit than this (maybe), and he'd be damned if this was the way it went down. So he grabs his bow and his knife and leaves at dusk, using the shadows to hide himself from them, escaping into the ravine and the wilderness beyond.

He dreams about dragging himself back here, about the moments where he'd fought against himself to stay alive, to keep breathing, to continue moving. He dreams about Andrea's face and about the baby and about how he was **not** going to lose the only good things in his life that he'd ever known.

And when he wakes up, he knows that that will never change.

He blinks his eyes against the harsh light of a late morning, the rays streaming in from an open window, the sun already high in the sky. He struggles to push himself upwards, fighting against sore muscles and forgetful limbs, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He pushes on anyways, undaunted – the faster he got moving again, the faster his body would remember – or else.

There's no one around, but the door to his room is open, and the sound of voices down the hallway beyond echo down into his room, confirming that he hadn't dreamt what had happened yesterday after all. He swings his feet down to the floor, and grimaces as his leg seizes, protesting his efforts to stand.

"Fuck off," he growls downward at his own limb, and he fights past it to stand, wobbly but fully vertical.

He makes his way down the corridor, leaning a hand against the wall when need be, urging his body onwards against its own will. The voices become clearer, more distinct, and he smiles when he recognizes her voice amongst the others, laughing and jesting and just so... alive.

He turns the corner, and everything stops. Seven faces turn to look at him, eyes wide and all openly staring. Glenn is the first to smile, rising up from his seat and crossing the room over to him.

"Welcome back, man," says the young man, grinning. "Knew you'd be back."

He only grunts a response as Glenn slaps him lightly on the shoulder, laughing jovially. And suddenly they are all there – Maggie, with a quick kiss on the cheek; Dale, with a smile and a nod; Carol, with a gentle hug; Carl, with a mature but incredibly sincere handshake; Rick, with an arm around his shoulder and a whispered apology, with guilt and shame embedded in every word.

"Don't worry about it, man," he replies softly, meeting his gaze. The other man nods and smiles slightly, a silent thank you on his lips.

And then he turns to the last figure in the room, seated on the couch, and in an instant his breath is stolen away.

She's smiling up at him, looking up from the bundle in her arms. "I guess I broke that promise after all," she says softly, rocking the bundle back and forth.

And with that, the others fade away – back to the kitchen, to the other rooms, to the front yard – not that he really notices. All he can see is her, seated before him, holding their child.

"Want to meet her?" she asks, her eyes locking with his.

"...h-her?" he croaks out, and he reaches out an arm to balance himself on a nearby chair, his legs suddenly more unsteady than they were that day he'd fallen down that creek bed, an arrow in his side and a lost girl to find.

She nods, slowly, happily. "Yeah."

He collapses into a chair opposite her – _them _– unable to fully think, to fully function, to fully feel. A daughter. A little girl. A tiny little living and breathing human being who will become a full grown living and breathing human being someday, as long as he doesn't fuck it all up. Everything before this moment hadn't seemed quite real, he realizes, because it had just been an idea. The idea of a baby. The idea of a family. The idea of a real life.

But that idea has passed into reality now, from raw concepts and imaginings to real flesh and blood. A daughter. A little girl. _His _little girl.

"Hey," she says, concern seeping into her voice, leaning forward towards him. "What's wrong?"

He can't quite meet her eyes. "I-I don't know if..." he clears his throat, strangely uncomfortable. "I don't know..."

"Daryl," she says, her voice strong, confident, like he knows she is, like he knows he can never be. "Come and hold her."

He shakes his head, still saying nothing, still held prisoner by that paralyzing fear, that tiny nagging voice at the back of his head: _You're nothing. You'll always be nothing. You're garbage. You're trash. You'll only fail her, Daryl..._

"Daryl," she repeats to him, harder now, more sternly.

He rises up from his chair and makes his way over to the couch, sitting down next to her, heart beating wildly inside his chest.

She grabs his hand with her free one, and pulls it tight against her. "Daryl. You love her. That's everything. Trust me."

With that, she moves her arms and swings the bundle towards him. Instinctively, his arms reach out into a cradling position, and she laughs, smiling at him.

"Not ready my ass," she says, grinning.

And with that, his daughter is in his arms.

He's never held a baby before. Ever. He didn't have any other family as a kid, so there were never any baby cousins, or children of family friends, or neighbours with newborns. As an adult, he'd steered clear of children and families and all that sort of emotional entanglement, preferring to keep to himself and consistently shucking off any and all assumption of any real responsibility.

But here he is.

He reaches down and pushes the blanket aside slightly, and suddenly he's looking down at the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. She's asleep – one tiny balled up fist drawn up to her face, cheeks red and eyelids fluttering with the eye movement of the deepest sleep. Her skin is pale, translucent almost, but it's perfect, flawless in every way. The hair on her head is dark, very dark, and he can't help but wonder if it'll stay that way, a pale and dark beauty, confident and strong like her mother.

There's a strange sensation on his cheek, and with surprise he realizes he is crying, crying like a child in a playground fight, tears streaming down across his skin.

"Well, fuck," he whispers, somewhat embarrassed, and he can hear her chuckle beside him.

"Not exactly the first words I thought you'd say to our child, but hey, at least they're memorable."

He looks over at her, pulling the infant even closer to him. "She's – she's perfect."

Andrea reaches out a finger, and strokes the top of the baby's head lightly. "Yeah," she answers, smiling softly, "she really is."

They sit there for what seems like hours, finally reunited as a family for the first time.


End file.
